


One Midsummer's Eve

by RazzleDazzle348



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Canon-Typical Violence, Dub-Con (of the fuck or die variety), Fuck Or Die, Geralt might mind less than Lambert thinks, Hurt/Comfort, Lambert is sneaky, M/M, One Shot, PWP, Shameless, no beta (we die like men), non-con (off screen), porn with the vaguest trappings of plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:22:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22415431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RazzleDazzle348/pseuds/RazzleDazzle348
Summary: When Lambert finds himself following in the footsteps of another Witcher who's cleared out all the contracts in the area, he doesn't expect to be called upon to fix a contract that Geralt didn't complete. And when he tracks down the errant Geralt, he certainly didn't expect to find him attempting to fight off the effects of a  lust curse. Don't let it be said that Lambert doesn't know how to make the best of any situation, though, and he's quick to take advantage of the opportunity to do something he's always wanted to...
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Lambert
Comments: 9
Kudos: 269
Collections: Jaskier or Geralt/others (with or w/out eachother)





	One Midsummer's Eve

**Author's Note:**

> So... I should really be updating my pretty-much-abandoned multi-chapter fic.... but I'm not. Sorry, anyone who read the other. Instead, you get a pointless piece of porn! Enjoy ;)

Bestiary Entry: Nerubus

“What, rape a succubus? Is such a thing even possible? I thought they’d spread their legs for anything that moved.” -Kidvad, Redanian Soldier

A Nerubus is born from an incubi or succubi that is taken against their will. While a incubi or succubi is usually more than willing to feast on any offered sexual energy, they are still sentient beings and will, on occasion, refuse. If this choice is violated, the sexual magic of their nature inverts. They will kill their assaulters and then accost any they see, inflicting insatiable lust. If the victim is unable to slake this lust, they will perish in the same flames that took the Nerubus’ initial attackers.

***

When you’d been walking the Path as long as Lambert, you began to notice patterns. There were big, obvious trends, like the waves of necrophages that plagued the countryside in the years following great wars, or the surge of drowners following a flood year, and then there were more subtle patterns, like the uptick in the number of nightwraiths after some fool bard had written another moronic love song that had swept through the tiny villages of Velen, tempting younglings who should know better into making foolish choices in the name of love.

Lambert snorted, scratching at the scars at the base of his jaw, and turned and spat into the dry dust at his feet. The notice board in front of him was pitiful. He wasn’t near desperate enough to take on any of the menial tasks offered; the last dregs of his reward pay from the ekimmara last week would have to be enough to get him to the next town. But it had been the same story at the last three shitholes he’d been through, and he’d seen this pattern a time or two before; he was following behind another on the same Path as he, and they’d already cleared the countryside of the worthwhile contracts.

He groaned as he turned his back on the noticeboard, wedging a finger under the collar of his leather vest and tugging. Summer in Velen was miserable, just like every other fucking season in Velen; the great wet bogs of fall and spring retreated from higher ground in the scorching heat, and what was knee-high sucking muck in other seasons dried into a fine powder of dirt and soil and shit and clung to every crack and crevice, turning to mud when it found sweat at the crease of knee or elbow. He couldn’t wait for winter, when he could make his excuses to hunker down somewhere where he could bathe more than once a week and let his sensitive nose smell something other than his own stench, but that was more than a season away. He slapped irritably at a large, droning horsefly, making ready to head for the inn for a drink before he departed, when he was stopped by the obsequious clearing of a throat nearby.

“Beggin your pardon, Master Witcher, sir.” The old man babbled, tugging uncertainly at the fraying hem of his sleeves. Lambert rolled his eyes, more than tired of the unceasing swing of the peasantry from disdain to servility, depending only on how much they needed a Witcher at that moment. 

“What.” He grunted, tugging at his collar again. Fuck, if he had the money to pay a blacksmith for a fitted suit of armor he’d do it in a heartbeat; he was so tired of wearing whatever armor he could find or loot.

“-other Witcher, sir.” The man continued babbling, and Lambert abruptly refocused his attention.

“Wait, what?” He repeated, and the old man paused uncertainly. Lambert waved a hand at him. “Yes, yes, I’m paying attention now. What do you want?”

The old man gulped. “Well, I wanted to ask if you’d heard from the other Witcher. He went off over 3 days past, told us he’d be back in a tick. Haven’t seen him since.”

Lambert huffed. Well, he’d been right to assume another Witcher was the one stealing all his contracts. “Nah, I’ve not heard anything.” He told the old man honestly, and went to turn away. Well, at least the other Witcher was working a case here, or possibly dead. That meant Lambert wouldn’t have to puzzle out which town was least likely for his competitor to hit next.

He blinked down at the wizened hand that appeared on his wrist, and turned a hard glare back at the old man, who flinched back, wisely retracting his hand. “Well, I was hoping… well, could you go after him, sir? It’s just, we sent him out to find the lads, and if he hasn’t returned yet…”

“The lads?” Lambert repeated, the idea turning in his mind. He hadn’t seen one of his fellows in over a year- after Vesemir had fallen, none had wanted to return to Kaer Morhen for wintering, and they had drifted apart. Perhaps he could follow up on this one, see what one of his fellows was up to.

“Aye, the lads. They young men of the town. They’d been sneaking off, one or two at a time, up into the mountains. We all knew, but as they’d return, we thought naught of it. Until about a week past, when we woke to them missing, all seven of them. We sent the other Witcher, the gray-haired one, after them, but he’s not returned neither. Perhaps you’d go see what became of them?”

Gray-haired one? What were the odds. Lambert grinned, his mind already made up. Besides Geralt and Vesemir, he’d not met another gray-haired Witcher. It would be good to catch up with Geralt, maybe even best him if he’d been having trouble with this contract…

“You can afford a second Witcher, then?” Lambert asked, not bothering to mask his doubt, already seeing the answer in the wear of the ealdormans’s cloak and the scarcity of wheat in the fields. The old man lifted his chin, though. “We can afford to pay a Witcher. The sum’ll go to whoever returns with our lads.” Lambert snorted. “Geralt didn’t ask for pay up front?” He asked, and then shook his head as the ealdormen went to reply.

“Rhetorical question- sounds just like the moron.” He grunted. “What can you tell me about where your “lads” were going, then?” He asked, and listened as the man, clear relief on his face, told him all that he knew.

It was the work of the afternoon to gather enough information and supplies to head up the mountain, and a young lad at the stable was grateful to care for his horse at the rate of a clipped copper a day. The trail up the mountain was clear as day, as the young men had done naught to cover their steps, breaking twigs and displacing shale along the way as they, in turned, followed a well-worn deer trail up towards a saddle between two mountains

The heat of the day cooled into evening as he walked, the clinging dust of the village fading to mountain shale and loam, and Lambert found himself picking up the pace, pathetically eager to see a friendly face. In the quiet of the evening he could even admit to himself that Geralt was a particular favorite, though he’d never say it aloud. Especially if he had the chance to one-up the man, as obnoxiously perfect as he was. He snorted. What other Witcher was involved in the crowning and killing of kings? He was a force of nature, both one of the best and worst Witchers- best for his skill, worst for his frequent and casual disregard of Witcher neutrality. 

In no one’s company but his own, he allowed a fond smile to twitch across his lips, but it fell in a second as his sensitive ears picked up on the distant sound of fighting. He loosened his silver sword from its sheath, breaking into a loping run. A single swordsman, breathing hard, fighting a flock of harpies. Lambert winced at the sound of rending flesh and a pained grunt, and corrected himself. Losing to a flock of harpies.

He broke into a clearing a moment latter, taking in the scene. A cave bordered the back of the clearing, deep enough that his sun-dazzled eyes couldn’t find the back. A still pool to the right, a grassy meadow to the right, and the whole thing ringed in trees. At least one corpse lay at the mouth of the cave, a shriveled husk of a thing, and in the middle of the clearing was Geralt, stumbling and weaving as he tried to defend himself from a pair of harpies, armed with his silver sword and clad in nothing but a pair of tattered britches, bright blood cascading down from a serious gash in the meat of his right shoulder. A third and fourth harpy lay in a tangle of claws and feathers at his feet.

Lambert ran forward, claiming the attention of one harpy, who swiped at him with a screech of surprise. He parried her claws and whipped around in a circle, using the steel toe of his boot to clip her across the chin and send her pinwheeling out of control. He was in place when she hit the ground, slicing a neat line across her throat to dispatch her. He turned in time to see Geralt catch the final harpy under the wing with the tip of his sword, grounding her, before limping heavily to where she fell to finish the job.

“Geralt.” Lambert greeted, carefully wiping harpy blood from his blade and inspecting it for damage before slipping it away. Geralt grunted in response, dropping his own naked blade to the ground and stalking towards the edge of the pool.

Lambert swallowed, a spark of foreboding dancing across the back of his mind. No Witcher treated their tools with such casual disregard. Something was wrong with the silver-haired Witcher in front of him, and it was something more than the gash across his shoulder.

Geralt dropped to his knees in front of the spring and ducked his entire head below the surface, holding it there for a long moment before pulling it free with a rush of water, shaking his head and scattering drops of water like a wet dog. He looked over to Lambert, who was concerned to note the bulging, thickened veins of toxicity spiderwebbing across Geralt’s face.

“Lambert.” Geralt said, the noise almost a groan. Lambert took a step closer, and Geralt flinched away. “Fuck off.” He hissed from behind clenched teeth.

Lambert stopped. “Geralt, what happened?” He asked, his concern growing. The Witcher in front of him was clearly unwell. He edged closer, and Geralt bared his teeth at him. “I said fuck off.” He said, his words oddly labored.

“That wound could use stitches.” He commented, and Geralt shook his head, taking a heavy step backwards into the clear water, maintaining the distance between them. Lambert arched a brow, and took a closer look around the clearing, engaging more of his senses. The body near the cave intrigued him, and he took a step in that direction, keeping half an eye on Geralt as he went. The uncharacteristically reticent man simply watched him, gaze dark with toxicity and heavy with something Lambert couldn’t place.

Lambert drew his sword again, unease whispering across the back of his mind as he drew closer to the corpse, eyes cataloging what he saw. Broad shoulders, narrow pelvis. Tall. Most likely male. He sniffed carefully; burnt skin and charred meat, but no burnt leather. He used the toe of his boot to prod at the man’s thigh, and the skin crackled and split, but no cloth or leather flaked away. He’d died naked. Lambert paced further into the cave; coming across the remaining “lads;” more corpses of similar description. Lambert grimaced. Well, no pay for this one. He stepped deeper into the cave, his amber eyes adjusting, and something cracked sharply under his boot. He crouched down. Broken crockery littered this part of the floor, and now that his eyes had adjusted he made out a bed of silks and cottons deeper inside. He stepped closer and sneezed at the smell that rose from them; blood and sweat and sex, at least a month’s worth. A step closer and he saw manacles, pounded deep into the stone of the cave, lined in runes of silver, cracked open and half-melted.

Lambert cursed under his breath and returned to the mouth of the cave, blinking in the setting sun, and looked more closely at the ground of the meadow. Sure enough, there they were; a set of hoofprints bounding away into the forest; they could easily be mistaken for a horses’, if a horse weighted less than 8 stone and walked on two legs.

“Succubus.” He grunted to Geralt, who nodded in response. “What did the fools do, tie her to the bed?” He grunted, and Geralt nodded again. Lambert shook his head. “Morons, utter morons.” He muttered. “A succubus shares her favors with any and all, but at her own terms. To rape a succubus…” He looked up at Geralt, realization settling in.

“You released her, didn’t you?” He said, his breath escaping him in an incredulous sigh. “You’re as much a fool they, then.” He eyed Geralt, a nasty smirk settling into the corners of his mouth. “You’ve set free a Nerubus, and she’s cursed you. What did she do, touch you? Kiss you?” He took a step closer, vaguely amused at the way Geralt flinched. “Fuck you?”

He rolled his eyes at the shamed look on the Witcher’s face. “And what were you going to do, sit up here downing Swallow potions and hoping to outlast the curse? You know that won’t work. You’ve gotta get the curse outta your system. C’mon, let’s get you back to civilization. You got enough gold in your purse for a stableful of whores?”

He stooped and gathered up Geralt’s silver sword. “And where’s the rest of your gear?”

Geralt shrugged, dark eyes watching Lambert carefully, making no move to come away from the water’s edge. “Nerubus took my gear, and my money.” He said, gesturing down to his legs. “She left my potions, my sword, and a pair of trousers. This is all I got. No coin to pay for a woman, and she knocked me out long enough that I don’t think I could make it to the city.”

Lambert clucked his tongue. “How long ago?” He asked, examining Geralt with a critical eye. Underneath the toxicity, the man looked exhausted. His head was hanging slightly, shoulders drooping, and now that Lambert was looking for it, he could see the way he was hunched forward, likely trying to keep any and all pressure of the hypersensitive skin of his dick.

Geralt groaned, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. “I got here less than a day after they sent me out. The lads were already dead. I don’t know how long it’s been, but I know that I can’t walk through a town like this. The first person who looked even remotely willing…” He trailed off.

Lambert rolled his eyes. “The things I do for my friends.” He remarked drily to the sky around them, and slipped his pack of his back, loosening the ties that held his bedroll together and spreading it out across the meadow.

He eyed Geralt, still standing ankle deep in the pond. The sun had finished setting while they’d been talking, and the pale, silver haired Witcher practically glowed in the moonlight. Lambert took a moment to truly look at the man, and allowed himself to appreciate him. Growing up, Geralt had always been the best of them- the strongest, the fastest, the smartest, able to take the most mutations. Lambert has so desperately wanted to be him, or at least more like him. As they grew, he also became the most attractive of them; he was strong but lithe, well-proportioned. His face was handsome too, strong jawed and finely boned, even when covered by the five-day stubble on his chin. Lambert could hardly remember when he’d transitioned from wanting to be Geralt to simply wanting to have Geralt, but it had been a long, long time back. He’d figured his chances were nill when the Witcher went first for Yennefer and then for Triss, (and then back to Yen again? No one was quite sure) but if he was here and alone and desperate that Lambert fully willing to take advantage of the situation.

“Lambert.” Geralt said, his voice low and gravely. “I don’t want to…” He broke off, cleared his throat. “I’m not exactly patient right now.” He said. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Lambert choked out a laugh, amused, and stood, tugging his ill-fitting vest off over his head and settling his swords carefully next to his pack. “Geralt, when was the last time we sparred?” He asked, stripping out of his armored pants as well until he, too, was standing in the cool air of the clearing in nothing but the thin cloth trousers he wore beneath his armor.

“If you didn’t hurt me then, with steel and silver in hand, how do you think to harm me now?” He strode confidently forward, invading Geralt’s space quickly enough that the silver haired Witcher, reflexes dulled by toxicity and lust, barely had time to react. He reached forward, quick as a leshen, and gripped Geralt by the wrist firmly enough to pull him forward with a quick, sharp, yank. Geralt stumbled forward, still slightly dazed, and Lambert caught him with his other hand low in his back, yanking the older Witcher up against him, firm enough to feel Lambert’s own hardness. Lambert inhaled, nostrils flaring, as he caught the scent of the other Witcher, musk and arousal and _pack._

“Besides,” He said, muscling his thigh between Geralt’s and crowding impossibly closer. “What makes you think that you’ll be doing the fucking in this situation?” At that, Geralt’s head snapped up, and Lambert watched as his dark pupils, already wide and dark with the low light and toxicity, blew wider with arousal.

He chuckled darkly. “Oh, you like that, don’t you?” He teased, drawing Geralt further up the bank of the pond and tumbling him down into his bedroll. The older Witcher went with more ease than Lambert had expected, the fact driving another bolt of arousal deep in his gut. It was enough to make him think that maybe, just maybe, the older Witcher wanted this on his own merit and not just because he was currently as aroused as he’d ever been in his life.

Lambert wasted no time in untying the front of Geralt’s trousers, pushing them down and off impatiently and wrapping his hand gently but firmly around Geralt’s cock. It was hard and so engorged it was purple rather than red, and Geralt wheezed as if the touch drove all the air from his body. Lambert tsked in pity, imagining how painfully pleasurable that must be, but only offered a few rough strokes before pulling away to rummage in his pack. He’d take the edge off if he trusted his fellow Witcher to be as malleable after orgasm as he was now, but if he knew Geralt, this was his only chance to fuck the man. He was not noble enough to pass it up.

He emerged from his pack with a sound a triumph, gripping a slender jar of oil and a dose of White Honey. He set the White Honey aside and returned to Geralt, taking in the flush high in his cheeks and the rigid set of his neck as he grit his teeth, eyes squeezed shut.

“Ah, none of that, White Wolf,” Lambert said with a smirk, reaching out and cradling the side of Geralt’s face with one hand. “If we only get to do this once, I want to hear you.” Geralt’s eyes flew open in shock and the tender touch, before shuttering as a stuttered moan was drawn out of him by the drag of Lambert’s rough thumb against his bottom lip.

Lambert lurched forward and set his teeth against the corded muscle of Geralt’s neck, biting and worrying at the flesh, and popped the cork from his bottle of oil, deftly dousing his hand and reaching down between their bodies. He took a quick moment to stroke Geralt once, firmly, from root to tip, and the strangled moan that Geralt released was almost enough to distract him from his goal.

Almost.

Lambert reached down, back beneath where Geralt’s balls were drawn tight up to his body, betraying the state of his arousal, and gently stroked across his furled entrance with one finger. Geralt bucked up in shock, one strong hand coming down to grip Lambert’s wrist, and Lambert lifted his head from the red mark he’d made on Geralt’s neck to look him in the eye. Geralt looked wild, his hair coming loose from its tie to tangle around his face, and a look of vulnerability in his eyes that made Lambert’s breath catch in his throat.

“Hey, shhh.” He soothed, his free hand coming up to cradle the back of Geralt’s head. “This’ll feel good, I promise.” He said, and later he’d blame that look of vulnerability for the reason that he leaned forward just a touch more and pressed his lips against Geralt’s, a kiss that started as a dry press of lips. And Lambert would later blame Geralt’s small, surprised whine for the reason that his tongue found it’s way into Geralt’s mouth, mapping out his gums and teeth and tangling with his own tongue, a kiss that turned wet and deep and filthy and ended with Lambert’s hand knotted in Geralt’s hair, pulling his neck back into an arch that had Lambert once again worrying his teeth into Geralt’s throat, an action that pulled another deep groan from Geralt’s throat.

The hard grip around his wrist eased, and Lambert kissed and sucked his way down Geralt’s body to nose at his erection, prompting another broken moan to escape Geralt, and when Lambert took the purple head of Geralt’s cock into his mouth, Geralt released his wrist entirely in favor of bring both his hands down to thread his fingers into Lambert’s hair. Lambert took the moment of distraction to slip his finger fully into Geralt, and almost groaned himself at the way the tight heat gripped around his finger. Melitele, that was going to feel _amazing_ on his cock.

Carefully, he slipped his finger in deeper, keeping Geralt occupied with gentle, teasing sucks at the head of his cock, and grinned to himself when his questing finger hit a spot inside Geralt that had him arching wildly, his head thudding back into the ground. “Ah, _fuck.”_ He cursed, and Lambert lifted his head off Geralt’s dick in favor of rhythmically pressing into that spot and watching him.

And oh, it was glorious. Geralt was _writhing_ for him, mouth open and eyes hazy in pleasure, his white hair tangled into a halo around his face, his hands opening and closing aimlessly at his side. Lambert grinned, pleased. He’d often wondered, when his mind wandered to Geralt over the years, whether the man had ever slept with another man, if he knew the pleasure of receiving as well as giving. From what he was seeing now, Lambert doubted it, and the knowledge filled up some deep, hollow part of him with a pleasure so warm and deep that he couldn’t help but lean down again over Geralt, slotting his mouth over his, and lazily fuck his tongue in and out of Geralt’s open mouth as he added a second finger and began to scissor the older Witcher open.

Geralt whined at the increased stretch, and when Lambert paused to let him adjust, Geralt surprised him by pushing down deeper onto his invading fingers.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” Lambert chuckled, sitting back up and returning to his self-appointed task of opening the Witcher up enough for his cock.

After a third finger and another splash of oil, Lambert judged him ready. With murmurs and nudges, he crowded Geralt over onto all fours, and took himself into hand, slicking himself from tip to root. He pressed the head of his cock to Geralt’s softened ring and leaned forward, keeping a gentle steady pressure as he reached forward with a soft hand and carefully gathered Geralt’s hair in one hand, leaning forward to whisper into Geralt’s ear, noting with approval that the Swallow in his system had mostly cleared up with gash on his shoulder.

“You have to ask for it.” He breathed, quietly, gently. Geralt moaned, a broken sound, and ground backwards. Lambert pulled away in time, giving a gentle tug on Geralt’s hair. “That’s not very nice, you know.” He said, and delicately nibbled at the curve of Geralt’s ear. The silver haired Witcher shuddered, goosebumps standing up on his skin, and Lambert watched as his arms quivered, fighting to stay upright between the combined weight of himself and Lambert.

“C’mon, Geralt.” He said. “I know what you want. I’ll give it to you. I just need to hear you say it.” He pressed forward again, teasing his head against Geralt, and the Witcher gave a low snarl.

“Lambert, you’re an ass.” He growled, the first thing he’d said since Lambert had tumbled him into the bedroll, and Lambert snorted, biting down more firmly against Geralt’s ear, and to his surprise Geralt let out a sharp whine of enjoyment.

Lambert chuckled breathlessly. “And the White Wolf likes a little pain, does he?” He asked. “You’re just full of surprises tonight, aren’t you?” He snuck a hand down between Geralt’s legs and trailed a finger along the bottom of his dick, a teasing, light touch. “I’m waiting.” He sang into Geralt’s ear, feeling the flinch and quiver of Geralt’s flanks as he fought with his pride. Losing patience, he gripped Geralt’s shaft tightly, pumping it once with a pressure just shy of pain, and then digging his thumb into the slit at the tip. Geralt gave a surprised shout of pleasure and dropped onto his elbows, the strength leaving his arms, and bowed his head.

“Fuck, Lambert.” He panted. “Just fuck me already.”

Lambert shuddered at the low growl of his voice, momentarily wondering just how much more gravely and low he would get after having his throat fucked, and rewarded the Witcher with another rough stroke before catching his arm low and tight around Geralt’s hips and driving forward into his resistance, feeling the head of his cock press against Geralt’s weakened rim. Geralt whined again, in discomfort this time, and tried to tighten against the intrusion a bit too late; and Lambert slid several inches in. Lambert caught his lower lip between his teeth, held tight with his arm, and dropped his head between Geralt’s shoulders as the older Witcher instinctively tried to lurch away from the intrusion.

“Hush, Geralt.” He soothed as Geralt stilled, and dropped his hand down once again to stroke lightly along the Witcher’s unflagging erection. He gripped it gently and began to stroke as he pushed deeper into Geralt, and let out a guttural groan in counterpart to Geralt’s whine as the last few inches sank in and his hip pressed snuggly against Geralt. Lambert took a moment to rearrange, and then gently pulled back and fucked back in, easing Geralt into the motion, building a gentle, rolling rhythm and altering the angle of his thrusts until-there!

Geralt let out another deep moan and suddenly pressed back into Lambert, and Lambert gripped hard on his hips, hard enough to leave bruises on anyone else, and snapped back in, aiming at that spot.

“Ah, fuck!” Geralt cursed, dropping his head down and thrusting back in counterpart to Lambert, and Lambert leaned forward into the thrusts. They built into a rhythm, and it wasn’t long until Geralt was cresting, his low groans rising sharply in pitch until he came, explosively, painting the bedroll beneath him with white stripes. Lambert pressed in deep, circling his hips right over Geralt’s prostate, milking him through orgasm, and shuddered as Geralt rippled and tensed around him, the strength of the motion drawing his own orgasm from him, so strong that he felt it start in his toes and crest over his whole body, releasing deep into Geralt and feeling a rush of primal satisfaction at the thought of burying his claim so deep inside, where no one else had ever been.

Spent, both Witchers collapsed forward, resting for a moment in the cool of the night for a moment, and then Geralt stirred uncomfortably, pushing back against Lambert until the other Witcher rolled off him, and flipping over to reveal his erection, unflagging.

“Ah, fuck.” Geralt groaned, flopping back onto his back. Lambert grinned and downed a Tawny Owl he found in his pack before he gripped Geralt by the hips and dragged him closer, slipping a finger inside to make sure he was still sufficiently loose. He was willing to fuck Geralt as many times as the Witcher would allow before his mind cleared enough to wonder why Lambert hadn’t just satisfied the Witcher with his hands and mouth and then dragged him off to a brothel. He drew Geralt’s ankle over his shoulder and slid home, watching raptly as Geralt’s eyes went hazy when he circled his cock into his prostate. 

Lambert was perfectly willing to help, as long as he got something out of it, too. After all, a Witcher never does anything for free.

And who knows? Maybe this was the start of a new sort of pattern for Geralt and him to follow; he wouldn’t be adverse to that at all.


End file.
